


we found it all on our own

by girl0nfire



Series: this is our family [1]
Category: Marvel
Genre: F/M, not sorry, oh god so I accidentally wrote babyfic, the soviet superfamily origin story, two assassins and a baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:19:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How James and Natasha came to meet a child that would later become theirs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we found it all on our own

**Author's Note:**

> Born out of a late-night session of screaming on Tumblr over how Natasha and James would be incredible parents. Thus the "Soviet Superfamily" was born; the tiny child's eventual name is Dasha.

They’ve spent the last two weeks tracking this goddamned rogue A.I.D. cell all over eastern Europe, yet they always seem to be about twelve hours behind, and James and Natasha are both hoping that the intel Sitwell had sent over this morning will finally prove useful. He’d managed to trace a stolen A.I.M. tech shipment to this small factory town just outside Bucharest, and things smelled bad enough that he’d sent them to check it out. Currently, they’re trying to make their way inside the abandoned warehouse Sitwell swore the terrorists were using as a base; James is on watch while Natasha tries to force the exterior door.

Which means Natasha’s working her way through all the Russian curses she knows, including a few combinations and permutations that may have been illegal in a few provinces, and she’s still picking the stupid lock by the time she’s ready to start in on the English ones. Soon, she’s halfway through the alphabet, stuck on conjugating “motherfucker” into every part of speech she can manage, when a heavy-booted foot finally sails over her shoulder as James aims a kick at the frame of the door.

“This is taking too long.” James kicks the frame again, grunting with the effort.

Splinters fly in all directions as the wood twists and groans, the door shattering off its hinges and falling forward into the empty warehouse with a loud, crackling _thud_.

“Subtle.” Natasha pushes herself up from a crouch, stowing the set of tools she’s been using and fixing James with an irritated glare. “I always forget that you were American military once, until you decide to go shock-and-awe again.”

James is already through the now-gaping doorway, but he looks over his shoulder at her, the glint of mischief in his eye almost concealed by his mask, and he says,  
“Says the Russian assassin who can’t pick a lock.”

“Says the Russian assassin walking behind you with two loaded weapons,” Natasha counters, taking this as an opportune moment to adjust the clips on both of her guns, making sure James hears the telltale _clicks_. His back is still turned to her as he chuckles, but she can imagine the look of exasperated amusement on his face; after all, she’s seen it quite a few times by now.

Moving through the abandoned space, they both fall silent, ears trained for any sound and eyes searching the dark corners for movements or shadows. Suddenly,  
both of their heads turn up in unison toward a small, shuffling noise above them. James turns to meet Natasha’s eyes, jutting his jaw toward an old rickety staircase that leads to the next floor. Treading silently, they make their way toward it and climb, the dust on the rotting stairs deadening the sounds of their footsteps. There’s a door at the top of the staircase; Natasha presses her ear to it, and hears a faint scraping sound inside. She nods to James, once, and they both raise their weapons before he forces the door open and they burst inside, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Fuck,” James grits out. “ _Fuck_.”

The A.I.D. cell had been here, Sitwell’s intel was right, but they’re still too late. Machinery parts and discarded blueprints litter the floor of what appears to be a squat; there’s a dirty mattress in the corner, a small, rusted water tub nearby. The floor is stained; bloody smears along the floorboards indicate at least three bodies had been dragged and shoved out the broken window opposite them. There had been people living here, it seemed, huddling away from the cold, and when the A.I.D. cell had barged in, looking for a place to work, they hadn’t cared what or who was in their way.

The chilled wind rattles the remaining panes of the dirty window, snow forcing its way through the broken glass and mixing with the crimson stains on the floor. James moves to the window, looking out for any sign of the terrorists’ route, anything that will help them track the cell, while Natasha walks the perimeter of the room, weapons raised as she searches for clues.

A harsh snuffling sound cuts through the cold air, and they both turn toward the far corner of the room. This close, Natasha can tell it’s a human noise, small and weak. Broken. It’s dark, nothing but the thin moonlight illuminating the small room, so James pulls a silver flashlight from his vest and aims the beam toward the corner. Natasha moves toward the sound, her guns raised, but her hands fall to her sides when the light reveals the source of the sound.

Huddled on the floor is a woman, no older than twenty. She’s thin and shivering, her face and limbs blue-gray from cold and blood loss. One small, shaking hand clutches at the bleeding bullet wound on her stomach, her other arm holding a bundle of dirty blankets tightly to her chest. James averts the beam of the flashlight, trying not to blind her, and Natasha crouches down, slowly, holstering her weapons and reaching a hand out to the trembling girl.

She shies away from Natasha’s hand, but its obvious that even the small action causes her pain, and she clutches her stomach more tightly, turning her head carefully away and squeezing her eyes closed. She’s trying to make herself as small as possible, curling her wounded body around the bundle in her arms. Natasha watches the blankets shift and feels a familiar, sick twist in the pit of her stomach. 

_What’s your name_? Natasha asks the girl, gently, hoping that her Romanian hasn’t become too rusty from disuse. _What happened here_?

The girl turns her head toward Natasha, and the dark circles ringing her eyes are thrown into stark relief by the beam of the flashlight, the wet tear tracks on her cheeks sparkling. 

_Are you going to hurt me, too_?

The words are barely there, gurgling out of her mouth along with a thin trickle of blood and Natasha has to look away because it’s like staring into a mirror. A soft cry escapes from the bundle of blankets and James takes a hesitant step forward, his boots scraping along the bloody floorboards. Natasha holds a hand up to still him, looking up toward the girl again.

 _No. We’re here to help you. Is your baby all right_?

Natasha reaches out for her for a second time, willing her hands not to shake, and waits. It’s a long time before the girl speaks again, nothing but her ragged breathing punctuating the silence. When she finally opens her mouth to answer, her body starts forward, her clutching hands going limp. A final hushed groan escapes her before her hunched body falls forward, protecting the child in her arms even as her last shaking breath leaves her body.

Everything stops for a moment, the silence of the room strung out like a long inhale, and Natasha’s hand stays stretched between them, trembling despite her best efforts to still it.

It’s James who makes the first move, finally, tearing apart the days-long stillness of the room with two steps and dropping to his knees next to Natasha. Carefully, he bends forward, gently lifting the tiny infant from its mother’s protective arms. As it’s moved, the child starts to wriggle, letting out a pained wail that cuts straight to Natasha’s heart.

No. No, there was no way that she would let this happen again. No way that she could spend another lifetime wondering _what if_. She looks over to James, watches as he tries to calm the squalling child and steels herself.

“Here, let me. You call Sitwell and let him know it’s a no-go.” Natasha opens her arms, taking the infant and cradling it to her chest. The child’s face is dirty and tear-streaked, a shock of blond hair fanned over its reddened forehead, but it appears to be unharmed. Natasha tucks the blankets a bit more tightly around the child and hums softly, willing the images of another child, another set of soft blue eyes, away.

No. This time, the child would be safe. She would be sure of that.

+

Sitwell had thrown a _fit_ when James had called, but sure enough, an hour later and the four of them are settled on the helicarrier, on their way back to SHIELD Headquarters. Sitwell immediately sets back to work tracking the A.I.D. cell, while Natasha and James take the sleeping infant down to the medical bay for clearance.

The SHIELD medics finally relent when James takes off his mask, the dangerous look on his face frightening them into a pale silence before they consent to let Natasha continue holding the child as they examine her.

Now, James holds his position, guarding the door as the doctors perform their exam, and when the time comes for them to weigh the small girl, she breaks into screams as soon as she’s removed from Natasha’s arms. Natasha tries her best to calm her again, whispering to her in Romanian and attempting to distract her, but the child’s face reddens and her wails continue to echo through the tiny, sterile room. James watches the scene, watches the lines deepen around Natasha’s eyes for a moment and he knows how difficult this must be for her. And again, he’s reminded of the strength Natasha carries, the power she possesses, and he’s in awe of her. In awe of how much she’s willing to sacrifice, how much she’s willing to put aside to ensure the safety of this child.

He’s never once let himself hope that he would get to see her with a child; never once dared to believe it could be, one day. But here, deep in the med bay of the helicarrier, James watches Natasha whisper lullabies to the tiny child wrapped up in her arms and he allows himself a moment of peaceful contemplation. A moment of want, a small glowing hope, even if he’ll never admit it.

Natasha looks up at him from where she’s perched on the edge of the steel examination table. “Would you like to…?”

Maybe she sees it in his face, or maybe she’s just tired of rocking the small child back and forth. James doesn’t question it, simply reaches out to take the infant into his arms. And with the warm weight of her settled against his chest, he gazes up at Natasha again, watches the lines soften and her expression relax.

And the small glowing hope he keeps trying to force away burns that much brighter.


End file.
